Page 19 of Making It While Faking It
“And Treasure Grove, no less.” She sounds impressed, and I would believe her act if her voice hadn’t cracked just a little.
“What about you?” I have to change the subject. “How’s life been treating you?”
She blinks at me for a few beats and then whispers, “Fine.” Her voice is shaky, so I know she is not fine.
The news of my engagement to Treasure has hurt her. The truth would make her feel better, but unfortunately, I can’t tell her the truth.
Nero clears his throat, and we both glance at him until our magnetic energy forces our eyes back on each other. Do I still love her? I’m not certain. I feel something for her, though, but whatever that is doesn’t spoil how I feel about Treasure Grove moving into my penthouse.
I shift my finger, pointing between me and Nero. “I apologize,” I say. “We’re in a—”
“No, it’s fine. I’m fine. I’m mean, it’s fine,” she says, cutting me off. Penelope takes two steps back. “Good seeing you, Achilles.” Her voice cracks again.
She quickly turns her back on me and hurries out of the bar. I know Penelope well, and she wants me to follow her. But I can’t. Not this time.
Nero and I gape at each other. I think we’re both asking ourselves the same question.
“What’s she doing south of Fourteenth Street?” Nero asks in a lawyer-like tone that’s teeming with suspicion.
“I don’t know. Do you think she came looking for me?”
He regards me shrewdly. “And how would she know you’d be here? This isn’t your kind of place either.”
I take note of the muddy-brown shiplap walls, the dull-green carpet, and the red cracked fake leather chairs. The only reason we’re in this place is because it’s Saturday and we wanted to meet somewhere not so crowded where two men can have a drink and a greasy steak. And furthermore, I hadn’t known this bar existed. Nero suggested it. We ate first, and the steak was terrible, and so is the whiskey.
“You think she has you on GPS?” Nero asks with a cynical laugh.
“Nah.” In my denial, I sound sure of myself, but I do have my suspicions. Orion knew I’d be out with Nero. Nah, he couldn’t have told her where to find us. I think it’s a coincidence. She could have a client who bought a fixer-upper in the neighborhood. Before Penelope and I parted ways, I made her a promise. Even though we had broken up because she couldn’t be certain that I, rather than Hercules, wouldn’t end up marrying a distant cousin, I promised her that she was the only woman I’d ever love. I’m marrying Treasure Grove, but that doesn’t mean my promise has been broken. I run through memories of Treasure Grove—how it felt being alone in the elevator with her, and the thrill that shot up my arm when my hand grazed hers while signing the contract.
I flinch when Nero smacks the bar twice and then waves a hand at the bartender. “Just give me a goddamn Coke.”
Readjusting on my bar stool, I’m forced to refocus on what’s important at the moment, and that’s Penelope surprisingly showing up to our meeting.
Did Orion…
Nah…
Did he?
New Digs
TREASURE GROVE
I’ve just been asked to take off my shoes and put them on a contraption that’s part coat-tree and part shoe rack. I’ve never been in such a sanitized environment in my life. There’s not a lick of dust anywhere. Every room that Caroline shows me looks as if no one has ever lived in it. And Achilles has more artifacts on display than the MoMA which is just down the street and around the corner. In the room he uses as a den, he has gorgeous sculptures made from twisted metal placed decoratively around the expensive white furniture. In another sitting room, I count four unfinished limestone sculptures of the human anatomy—like a torso, a leg and hip, a man’s back, and two feet, each attached to a calf. These sculptures are encased in glass just like the pen is. And each attempt at completion is signed by a different artist. The pieces are so odd that it makes me wonder if I should worry about living with a man who seems to have an infatuation with imprisoning limestone body parts and a writing pen in glass.
When I ask Caroline if she knows why he has all of those undone sculptures, she says she doesn’t know, and I actually believe her. Achilles is certainly a mystery. He could actually be the true-life depiction of that guy inAmerican Psycho. I should watch my back, lock my bedroom door, and steer clear of him.
She shows me more rooms, like a library, Achilles’s office, my office, a bar, and several other rooms that are too immaculate to ever use. And then, finally, Caroline takes me to the kitchen, which is the only space I care about other than the one I’ll sleep in. One look, and all of my worries about the weird guy I’m now living with fade into the background like white noise. As a restauranteur, my eyes gravitate first to the built-in Viking wall ovens and then to the double cooktops in the middle of a massive white stone-topped island. I admire one of two Bertazzoni double refrigerators—there’s one on each end of this true chef’s kitchen.
“This is very nice,” I say, running my hand against the flush gray cabinets. The wood is as soft as butter. “Does he have a private chef?” I ask, knowing that a man like him would.
I turn to look at Caroline. Her fingers are clasped dutifully and pressed against her abdomen. She almost looks unreal, reminding me of one of those servants to rich men I’ve seen portrayed in movies. That’s it… she seems two-dimensional. I wonder if there’s more to her.
“Today, yes,” she says. “But usually, Achilles makes his own meals, or he’ll order from twenty-four-hour room service. You have access to that service as well.” She bends her arm to scowl at her wristwatch and then tells me that Barbara Townsend, the family’s chef, will be in by three o’clock to cook lunch and then dinner later.
Oddly, disappointment snakes around my heart, feeling like a chilly breeze in my chest. “Only for me?” I ask as I finally admit to myself that deep down inside, I would actually like to see Achilles’s face. I want to verify that stab of attraction I felt for him the last time we saw each other.
“Yes, Treasure,” Caroline says.
